The Emperor's Finest
by Morgan P. Harder
Summary: Though our tanks and artillery are mighty, it is the vast ranks of Imperial Guardsmen that shall trample the enemy to dust. -Ursarkar E. Creed, Lord Castellan of Cadia. A collection of one-shots set in various universes. Follow-up chapters are entirely contingent on someone asking for one and me finding the time to write it. Review and I'll probably write a follow-up chapter.
1. Guardsmen of Brockton Bay

**Guardsmen of Brockton Bay**

Lung laughed contemptuously at the girl who stood before him. A young woman in a heavy green long coat and matching green cap stopped his advance, some sort of tinker tech weapon in hand. Military garb, similar to Miss Militia, though more old school. A cross between Russian and Germanic.

"What do you plan on doing, little girl?" Lung scoffed. In response, a bolt of supercharged energy punched a hole through his knee, cooking flesh and obliterating bone. Roaring in pain and anger, Lung lunged forwards, hands morphing into claws. A single strike severed the girl's head, what little armour she wore did nothing to stop Lung's mighty claws. Lung watched as the girl's body slumped to the side, her head bouncing across the cold asphalt. Pathetic. He was Lung, the Dragon of Kyushu! None could stand to…

A bolt of flesh melting energy slammed into his chest. Glancing up, Lung found his attackers. A dozen more women dressed the same as the one he had just killed. They dared to continue to contest him? After he had so easily slaughtered one of their number? He would teach them the meaning of the world power!

Then the second rank fired, bringing him to his knees. A deafening war cry heralded Lung's charge, the Changer throwing himself into the middle of the insects who defied him. Lives were ended in single strikes. Bodies were savaged and tossed aside. Spines were snapped with sickening crunches. Blood boiled in veins as flames poured from unhinged jaws. The dozen girls were killed in seconds, and Lung stepped out of the alleyway into the street.

A hundred tinker tech rifles came to life, held in the hands of a hundred girls in green coats and hats. In this moment, Lung realised something. Each insect he had killed, each body he had slain and left broken, were the same. Uniform in dress, in proportion, and in temperament. Each had met their end upon his claws and fangs with grim resolve, firing to the last. Clones.

Scaled pinions erupted from Lung's back, flames burning red in the black night. Human speech was beyond Lung by this point. It didn't matter, the wrathful embers flickering in his eyes was enough to signal his intent. The green coats responded in kind. A hundred more stepped from the shadows, weapons drawn. They were everywhere. More, more, more. An endless tide. Atop buildings, peering from windows, and filling the streets in an ocean of green.

As one, they spoke. "For the Emperor and the Angel!" A declaration of intent. An oath, from which there was no retreat. Countless rifles lit up the night, like flashlights in the night. They brought the day with their presence. With sheer weight of fire, darkness was banished from the world. There was only light, and blood. Lung reaped a fearsome tally. He afforded himself well, crushing grim-faced girls beneath burning fists. But it was pointless. For every one he killed, ten more took their place. Rifles cooked flesh faster than it could regenerate. The foe was endless, and each fought with zealous fury. In melee they were nothing—lambs to the slaughter. Still, they fixed bayonets and hurled themselves to their deaths, giving their lives for a scratch, for a drop of blood. By the time he died, Lung stood as tall as any of the surrounding buildings, smashing rank and file with wild swings. But in time, he fell to the endless swarm. His flesh, scorched beyond what even his flames could accomplish, his organs, cooked into superheated paste, his bones, ground into dust beneath rifle butts.

By the time the fight was over, the streets ran red with the blood of green cloaked girls, corpses piled meters high. It was only now that the Protectorate found the courage to enter the scene. As one, the girls turned towards the armoured man who stepped off his motorcycle and gazed, stone-faced, at the bloody scene.

"Who are you?" Armsmaster demanded.

A thousand heads turned towards him, tilting slightly in consideration. One stepped forwards. "Taylor Hebert. Guardswoman, 273rd Valhalla Regiment."

The next. "Taylor Hebert. Guardswoman, 273rd Valhalla Regiment."

"Taylor Hebert. Guardswoman, 273rd Valhalla Regiment."

"Taylor Hebert. Commissar, attached to the 1273rd Valhalla Regiment." This one wore the same green coat and hat as the others, if more ornate, and held a pistol and a sabre instead of a rifle.

"Taylor Hebert. Guardswoman, 273rd Valhalla Regiment."

"Taylor H…"

Armsmaster grunted. "Yes, yes. Taylor Hebert. Guardswoman, 273rd Valhalla Regiment?"

"Hmpf. Hardly." Armsmaster turned to look at the annoyed sounding girl and came face to face with a girl in a green coat and hat. But where the others wore plain coats, hers was decorated with countless medals. She eschewed a hat, letting her long curly hair run freely to her shoulders. "Taylor Hebert. Lady General Militant. Would you like to have a chat?"

* * *

It's more or less a mono-type army with a few commissars here and there. The in-universe reason for Taylor only calling up run-of-the-mill guardsmen—or women in this case—is because her powers are not fully developed yet, and thus she can only summon basic grunts. The out of universe reason is because I don't really know enough about Warhammer to know what to field. Plus, vehicles aren't really suited for inner-city violence. Neither is artillery. Or air support. Or most of the things the guard is good at. Luckily, it turns out that the guard is also good at dying, but shooting the shit out of whatever is killing them before that.

But let's just stick with the in-universe reason for now, because I do not need to spend another forever binging wikis.

On another note, strictly speaking, Taylor doesn't really have the resources of a Lord or Lady General Militant. Such a rank is only given to her by virtue of there not being any other parts of the Imperium in Earth Bet. Technically she should be a Colonel, as she only commands a single Regiment, but in lieu of there not being any other Imperium presence, she's been upgraded to Lady General Militant by seniority.

In case you're wondering, by the way, Taylor's trigger gave her the ability to summon clones of herself as Guardsmen elements of the 1273rd Valhalla Regiment, as well as the knowledge of the role of a Colonel in the Imperium, if not the memories. (So, no indoctrination to the Emperor or any of that, just the Guardsmen and the knowledge to use them to their upmost ability.)


	2. Guardsmen of Gremory

**Guardsmen of Gremory**

His former girlfriend rose into the air, wings as black as night erupting from her back. A contemptuous sneer fixed itself on her face as a spear of light came alive in her hand. "Issei? Wouldn't you be a dear and die for me?"

Die for me. The words were familiar. All too familiar. Issei winced, clutching at his head. Where, where, where had he heard it before? The last thing he recalled as a burning spear impaled him was that this didn't feel like a new experience. The pain, the life slipping from his body as death rushed to embrace him… It was familiar. The distant echo of an old friend.

—

When he met Raynare again, he told her as much. Admitted that he had no idea why, but her demand for his life brought a chill to his spine as if the caress of one forgotten. More sensual than even the most sexual act. As the gun in his hand, stolen from a slowly expiring Fallen Exorcist, shredded her wings, burned her skin, and finally cooked her brains to slag, he mused that this too felt all too familiar. Blam. Blam. Blam. The heretical creature expired underneath his pinpoint accuracy, far beyond what a simple high school student could manage. Rather, the accuracy of a veteran. And he had no idea why.

—

But it was when Riser stood before him, the broken bodies of his friends lying scattered about him that he truly remembered. Koneko was still breathing, the girl too tough to put down, but stripped of clothes and on her knees, her hated cat ears and tail flickering about in agony. Kiba's body was lying one way, his legs slumped the other, cut through by his own swords—damage was simulated, but the boy would most likely never walk right again. Asia, sweet Asia, was kneeling besides Koneko, the wash of Twilight Healing giving her life, even as her naked body was impaled again and again by her own hands, offset by her Sacred Gear just enough to keep her alive. Akeno thrashed about, lightning coursing through her veins, torturing her from the inside out, the girl having long since screamed her throat raw. And yet, none of them could make a move. In fact, each weeping child had a resigned smile on their face. Their will was no longer their own, enslaved by the staff Riser held and turned against each other, and then forced to torture themselves to the point of breaking.

It was only him and Rias left. Rias trembled with silent rage at the state of her peerage, of the torture inflicted on her friends. She knew that Riser had won. The Phenex had won when he had revealed that staff of his, and laid the red-haired girl's fellow devils low with the tainted power.

And yet, Issei smiled. "Thank you, Riser," he said. Everyone looked at him in varying degrees of confusion. Issei just smiled more. "For reminding me. Of what I was forgetting. Of what I had lost."

The man scoffed. "Rias," he commented. "I think that this one has lost his mind at seeing what will happen to him." Rias glared at him, but could not argue. She knew her fate, now that she had lost. To be tortured, alongside her peerage. Raped, and paraded about like a trophy. He had said as much, gloated before them.

Issei's smile darkened. A pistol was raised in a gloved hand. "Riser. This is not you. This is not what you were like. You have lost your way. Your peerage knows this." At his words, Riser's servants shuffled nervously and looked to the ground. Their heart was not in the torture of their foes, save for Riser's Queen, who had thrown herself into it with all her body and soul.

The response was a blast of chaotic power that shattered Issei's hand, the pistol falling to the ground. Issei just smiled unkindly at the madman before him. "So be it. The laws of Devilkind will have you wait until your marriage with Rias is complete to have your heretical way with my friends. I will see you and your taint removed from the world before then."

His answer was a crazed laugh. "You will? You are just as much bound to me as Rias is. Sure, you'll have a week to come to terms with your new fate, but you cannot resist. It is inevitable!"

Issei shook his head. "Inevitable. I know that word. I have used it many times. Mostly to my killers. As they sink their blades into my flesh or blow out my brains with their guns, I tell them of true inevitability. There are many things in this world, Riser. Imperial Reckoning is the only true inevitability. It may take a century, it may take a Millennium, but the Imperium repays its dues. In full." The boy laughed. A bitter, bloody laugh. "But don't worry Riser. You won't have to wait that long." As the staff rose in Riser's hand, to enslave the boy to a darker power, Issei raised his own arm. "Fuck. You."

The sword sliced cleanly through Issei's throat and clattered to the ground. The boy died there. No matter the wards or spells maintaining the arena, his death was too fast. Too clean. He was dead before he hit the ground.

—

The doors to the hall slam open. The assembled devils turn towards it, staring in shock as Issei strides through. No longer dressed in the Kuoh Academy uniform that he had worn for his battle with Riser, this time an elegant coat drapes across his form. Rias's eyes shine with hope, even as she knees naked at the altar, her peerage beside her in a similar state of dress, save for Kiba who sits in a wheelchair in the front row, watching with gritted teeth.

"I do hope I'm not late to the party. Only, I came to lodge a complaint about the goings-on. See, I take offence to warp tainted fucks torturing my friends; all offence meant, Riser." The boy smiles darkly at the assembled devils. "My apologies, but I'm here to stop this wedding."

Rolling his eyes, Riser turns towards the boy. "Oh? You and what army, boy?"

"I'm glad you asked." From behind Issei, they come. An endless tide of black and grey, their helmets done up in the classic Prussian pickelhaube of the Napoleonic Era and of the early First World War. In their hands, they hold rifles, each one crackling with energy as the power sources are overclocked and pushed to the breaking point. Power feeds whine angrily, ready to explode at a moment's notice. The devils recoil before this army of masked men.

Riser scoffs and motions towards them. "Guards? Kill them all." When the guards don't move, he fixes them with a glare. "What are you scared of? They're only human! Not even Mages or Exorcists."

At his words, the guards finally regain their confidence. They move towards Issei and his army, power crackling to life in their hands.

Issei's smile grows positively devilish. He turns towards the soldiers. "Death Korps of Krieg! You know your purpose! Today, we will do our part to expunge the shame of our past! Today, we will kill this warp tainted heathen! You will Fight to the Death! Forwards for the Emperor! Without Mercy! Show these sons of bitches Imperial wrath!"

With a bloody war cry, the wave of grey and black surges forwards. Devil Guards blast holes in their ranks, savage oncoming men, and rend entire squads into a bloody mess. In return, the Death Korps unleash hell. Overcharged rifles melt through arcane shields, slag demonic armour, and turn devils to ash. No matter how much damage is inflicted on these charging madmen, they don't stop. Even on the brink of death, they fight on. One devil blows a man's torso out. In return, the man raises his rifle and scorches off his killer's leg with his dying breath. Everywhere, this is repeated. Men die, and in their death throes, they return fire in a withering barrage.

All across the line, Kriegers are turned to dust by their own guns, the power source overheating and blowing them apart. Still they push their guns beyond all safety, eschewing care of life and limb for even the slightest chance that they can simply injure their foes.

And kill them they do. Devils are blown from the air or killed where they stand. The devil's barrage kills guardsmen by the thousands. There are thousands more. Grenades are thrown forwards, shredding arcane wards or other such defensive works, or simply blasting groups of devils asunder. And then the Death Korps is in melee range.

If one thought it was bloody before, then they have never seen a Krieger in close combat. Bayonets are levelled, and the Regiment runs headlong into the devil's lines, firing as they go. And then comes the order. Issei thrusts his hand forwards. "Fix Bayonets! Do your Duty Onto Death!"

Kriegers fly into a bloodthirsty frenzy. Sharpened bayonets slice devils apart with reckless abandon. Dying men rush forwards, their mouths warbling bloody oaths in death as they fall upon devils. Their name is well earned. The Death Korps of Krieg shatters the Devil Guards under the weight of unrelenting death, burying them in blood. And they continue on, unabated. Some still have devils upon their bayonets. Triggers are pulled, blasting devil corpses from where they are impaled rifles and they are sent tumbling to the ground to be crushed underfoot.

By kill totals, by power, by almost any metric, this should be the devil's victory. It is not, simply because the Kriegers are more willing to die than their foes. They die in droves, in waves, in untold numbers. And they continue on. The floor is paved with the bodies of Kriegers, lined with their blood. A gruesome sight. A monument to human determination, to single-minded purpose.

Those not involved stand aside as the Regiment finally comes to a stop. Issei passes through them and steps out of the line. Riser stands before him. Between the two, only the Phenex's peerage still stand. A pistol and a sword are drawn from his coat. Issei points his sword towards Riser, before drawing it across his throat. The meaning is clear.

The two pawns come first, chainsaws roaring. They are smashed aside in a single swing. Issei walks past them, blowing out a leg on each of them. He considers this fair play, considering what was done to Kiba, regardless of the innocence of these two children. Forgiveness isn't particularly on his mind. He appreciates that they use chainsaws though. Reminds him of home, though the Chainswords of his fellow Marshals are usually more effective. Another pawn is next, her staff whistling in the air. Issei cuts it in two, before stabbing her in her gut. She whimpers as he shoves her off of his sword with a grunt, the power field that encircles the weapon burning her blood from the pristine blade.

The Rooks don't make it a foot. The masked one goes down with her arms blown off by his pistol, the other with her legs the same. Riser's sister conjures an inferno atop him. Issei strides through it, batting embers from his slightly singed coat. She is stunned at the ineffectiveness. In that time, the Phenex girl finds herself knocked from the sky by a grenade, and pinned to the ground by Issei's power sword like a butterfly.

Riser's other Bishop comes to her fellow piece's aid, bleeding a storm of elemental power. A pistol fires at her, and the young girl flinches. Then she blinks in surprise as the beam of light disperses around her. Then Issei cold-cocks her, knocking her out in a single blow. She alone, he shows mercy to, for she alone argued against her Master's actions. Even if the others disproved, only one spoke up.

A longsword, Zweihänder, and dagger descend upon Issei's head. His power sword meets them in a grinding agony of steel. Three weapons are devil-forged steel, some of the best money can buy, crafted by master forgers in the heart of Hell itself. One weapon is an ancient thing, wreathed in an aura of power, and forged for the use of the Emperor's finest. It is no contest. The two Knights slump to the side, bleeding profusely. Issei continues on.

A swarm of Pawns seeks to waylay his path. The two cat-girls remind him of the felinids. An abhuman race, but considering his own mutation, they were fine in his book. And much preferable to, say, the orgyns or ratlings, in terms of looks. By the time he's done musing about the other abhuman races in the Imperium, the Pawns have been crippled, and lie around him in a pile of broken bodies.

Riser's Queen blocks his path. Her hand gestures towards him. A bolt of crackling explosive energy leaps outwards. Issei glances behind him. The groaning, crying, bloodied bodies of Riser's Pawns are there. So he braces himself and crosses his arms. After all, he might not that happy with them, but seeing a few children die for the umpteenth time isn't something he feels too inclined to do. A mighty explosion rocks the ground, that would tear apart even a mid-ranked devil. Riser's Queen laughs mockingly. A barrage of lasers is the response. They catch the Queen completely unaware. She had thought her enemy dead. Overconfidence. A slow and insidious killer. Emerging from the cloud of dust, Issei's coat flutters, tattered at the edges but little more. As he strides past her scorched body, Issei tosses one of the pistols onto her chest. An explosion billows up behind him as the so-called Bomb Queen is blown into atomic dust by the overheated pistol. A fittingly ironic death. And then there is only Riser. The tainted staff in his hand rises, and the world around him warps.

Issei draws a second pistol and fires. The shot goes wide. A streak of superheated energy flies past Riser and cooks the air behind him. An unholy screech. The veil between worlds is twisted and torn asunder by a fluctuation of warp taint. A Daemon stands there. It raises a hand to kill Issei where he stands.

Sirzechs is faster. Destruction made real, the end of everything incarnate. A sword of annihilation descends upon the creature's neck, severing its head. Sirzechs slays the ancient monster as easily as if a normal man would swat a mosquito. Easier, in fact. The backlash turns the staff that Riser holds into a supernova. His body burns, and he slumps to the ground.

When Issei arrives before the dying devil, the dancing madness is gone, replaced only with endless sorrow. The devil reaches towards Issei with his one remaining arm. Issei grasps it in his.

"Thank you." Riser's words are simple. "Take care of them."

Issei looks over at the children Riser had motioned towards; his peerage, all in various states of injury. The request is considered. They worked with a heretic. Unwillingly, perhaps, but still. There is only one answer. "Of course." A pistol is levelled at Riser, even as the devil smiles contentedly. Blam. The trigger is pulled. The devil dies. He will not come back. He has no tears left to cry.

Throwing his coat over Rias' naked form, Issei moves towards the injured devils of Riser's peerage, his smile kind once more. He supposes that his kindness would have him before a tribunal. Again. For the umpteenth time. But Issei doesn't really care. This is a different time. Those old cynics live in a decaying world, Issei in a thriving one. The boy supposes he is lucky that he didn't have his memories for so long, else he wouldn't be so affected by his short sixteen years in a better world. Sixteen years against a hundred, and yet…

Issei looks to the Death Korps of Krieg. A wave of his hand and they retreat, flowing from the halls. He is unsure where they will be going. Though, considering that he found them in Africa waging a war against a bunch of warlords, it is probable that they're off to some other war-torn hellhole. A wave of melancholy flows across him, as he knows in his heart that the next time they meet, his brothers and sisters in arms will be fewer in number. They seek death all too much. By the Emperor, his life in this world really did change him. As Rias wraps herself around him, sobbing into his back, the former Death Korps Marshal shakes away memories of the past. Changed him, perhaps. But for the better, he reckons.

* * *

Death Korp of Krieg. Bunch of mad bastards they are, eh? Anyways, the justification for this one is that Issei is a mutant Krieger. Now, Krieg doesn't like mutants that much, right? They kind of practice a policy of eugenics in order to insure as few mutants as possible.

Anyways, Issei was born Karl Von Brant. A mutant with abnormal psychic potential. So he was shot. As were his parents. I mean, grimdark and all that. Except that he came back a few days later. So he was shot again. And he came back again. After a few repetitions of this, the Inquisitors were called in. They killed him a few times, and he kept coming back. So they tortured him a few times. Every time he came back, it was without any memories of pain. Of dying, sure, but no pain.

It wasn't even that his body came back to life. Rather, a perfect replica of his former body would appear on Krieg, with Karl within. It should be noted that Karl's psychic potential wasn't actually that great. Rather, he was just tapping into the Krieger's innate wish to die in battle in service of the God Emperor. Kind of like orks really. You know, enough people believe it, so it becomes true? So now you've got a kid who believes that Kriegers are meant to die endlessly for the God Emperor, and who's psychic power allows for that.

Regardless, not much actual psychic power. Not even enough to be used as an Astropath or whatnot. They tried feeding him to the Golden Throne once. Infinite amount of food for the God Emperor potentially. Didn't work. Well, eventually, someone realized that an infinitely respawning Guardsman would be useful. So into the Death Korps he went, with a close eye kept on him.

As you might recall, Karl was attuned quite closely to the whole Krieg mentality. It should be no surprise that he took to the business like a duck to water. And he quickly shot up the ranks.

It should also be mentioned that this shooting up the ranks was in part due to his skill at being a Guardsman, but mostly due to his ability to come back from death. Considering the Death Korps mostly promotes on a basis of who's still alive, and the duration of service of your average Krieger is measured more accurately in weeks—compared to the rest of the Guard, who you would measure in months—a functionally immortal Krieger is liable to become a fairly high rank in a fairly short time.

And so time passed. Karl rose through the ranks, become a Marshal eventually. The longest serving Krieger in the whole army—not, it must be said, a particularly tricky feat all told.

Well regardless, one day him and his men were travelling the warp, as you do. When boom! Warp fluctuation. Most of his men were killed, in fact Karl himself was killed. But rather than respawning on Krieg, as was normal, Karl found himself in Germany. Not that he knew it, because he also found himself without memories.

What had happened was that the warp fluctuation had tossed him into a different dimension. Disconnected from his homeworld, his powers attached themselves to the closest match and respawned him there. As a baby. A newly born baby. With no parents. And no memories.

Anyways, a Japanese family adopted him eventually. How? No bloody idea mate. It happened is all I'll say. And so Karl became Issei and grew up in Japan. A perfectly normal—if somewhat more perverted than normal—boy.

Until Raynare killed him, and his powers kicked in again. Rias resurrected him before his memories returned, but a faint lingering memory had been awakened. And then everything came back, as the boy stood amongst his fallen comrades, as he had a thousand times before, facing off against a warp-tained Riser.

After all, the Death Korps was not the only thing that came through the warp. An eldritch artifact of some elder Daemon made it through as well, and was found by Riser. The staff tainted the Phenex, as Chaos tends to do. Standing alone, about to die, with your friends bleeding out around you is usually not a familiar memory, but for Issei—formally Karl—it was a Monday. His life before came flowing back to him.

So, to escape for the time being, Issei killed himself and respawned in Germany. After a bit of looking, he found the remnants of his former unit, killing warlords in Africa. They had, surprisingly, kept a low profile. But then again, with no real commanders, the average Krieger isn't that smart. So they mostly sat around, went out and killed a few people that were killing a few other people, and that was that.

Issei took command of them and lead them to Hell, the travel courtesy of Sirzechs. Probably not strictly something that the leader of the Devils should do—allow a boy and his personal army into the heart of Hell to kill one of the people that Sirzechs is nominally supposed to be protecting—but then again, devil.

And the rest is, as you say, history.

* * *

Now, is this in keeping with the lore of Warhammer? Fucked if I know, I just mostly read the wiki and 1d4chan for my 40k lore. The most in keeping with lore is that I based Issei on Marshal Karis Venner. So, able to issue three orders a round (Even if you can't issue some of the orders that Issei did), a power sword, a pair of hot-shot laspistols (You only get one, but two is cooler), and Memento Mori, which forces all damage dealt that would be rolled to be counted as 1. That's my excuse for why Issei can walk through Ravel's fire and Yubelluna's explosions, in case you're wondering. Also, every Krieger had a hot-shot lasrifle. Why? Because it's more badass.

Ah, damn, I'm basically writing like Matt Ward or something. Except that he's canon and I'm not. Phew, it's all good then. Let the Rule of Cool fanfiction continue on.

And that's about all. Don't expect the next chapter as soon as this one, I just had these two already written.


	3. Guardsmen of Remnant

**Guardsmen of Remnant**

Jaune watches as Beacon grows smaller beneath him. With a grunt, he shatters the lock of the rocket locker he is in and forces the door opened. Further and further away, the world below him disappeared. People became ants. Ants, being overrun by a tide of blackness. Still, Jaune grins. Because on his scroll, something is flashing.

"Commissar, your request for reinforcements has been acknowledged. Troops are inbound. Three seconds to deployment." Three becomes two, becomes one. From the warp, a cathedral appears. A cathedral forged into a ship, fitted with a prow bristling with guns, and powered by great engines in the rear, it hammers out of subspace and immediately disgorges its inhabitants.

Streaks of light dart towards the planet surface. Valkyries, descending like the wrathful warmaidens that they have taken their name from. They strafe the city, multilasers spraying down hordes of lesser Grimm, while lascannons punch holes in Alphas. Hellfury missiles and rocket pods blast apart large concentrations of savage shapes with equally savage fury. The occasional bolter rattles out in the night sky, shredding inhuman flesh.

But a battle cannot be won by air power alone. As the Valkyries pass, dark forms leap from their opened bay doors. They hurl towards the ground, firing as they go. The Elysian Drop Troops smash into the centre of the Grimm and carve out bloody pockets of resistance with their lasrifles. Men and women stand in groups, back to back, or even alone—such is the luck of a paratrooper; who knows where you'll land?—and slay Grimm by the hundreds.

Vale is secure. Or it will be, come dawn. Jaune turns his gaze to Beacon. Some Valkyries draw near, but the dragon Grimm shreds them all. The Valkyries begin to pull back. Jaune leaps from the locker and plummets towards a passing Valkyrie. He manages to swing himself inside. Lasrifles and laspistols are levelled at him only to find themselves staring into the barrel of a bolt pistol.

He stares fearlessly into the guns of the Guard. Internally he would like to dive for cover—even aura won't protect him against that amount of firepower—but he has a role he must play. "Commissar Arc, tell me. Why are you retreating?" he demands.

The Guardsmen glance at each other. From the cockpit, the pilot pokes his head out slowly. "We… were just going around for a second run!" he stutters.

The man is lying, Jaune knows. By most accounts, he should shoot him. That's what his father said a Commissar did. "Well then. Take us in." Jaune just lowers his bolt pistol. It isn't like he's a real Commissar. His Great Uncle might have been one, but that was forever ago. And if he can help it, Jaune hopes he won't have to kill any of his own soldiers today.

The Valkyrie spins around and blasts towards Beacon once more. The dragon is there to meet them… and then it's not, shunted sideways by the full length of an Atlasian Battlecruiser smashing into it. A fortuitous occurrence; an opening. It is taken. They dart past Jaune and fling themselves from the bay doors. Most of the Elysians head for the ground, to bolster the huntsmen and huntresses in training. Jaune leaps out after them but aims instead for the tower.

He crashes through the glass and, with a slight adjustment, slams into Cinder. The arrow the black-haired woman had been notching goes wide. Jaune is on his feet, slamming her away with a blow from Crocea Mors.

She responds with a blast of fire that shunts him back. Jaune glances behind him. Pyrrha lies face-down, blood flowing from her ankle. Her breathing is ragged. She is not long for this world, even with Jaune's intrusion. Jaune turns to Cinder with a chilling glare, Cinder meets it with her own burning gaze. They regard each other.

"It's game over, Cinder. You've lost."

The woman laughs. "Jaune Arc. I've already killed your little girlfriend, what on Rement makes you think that you'll be able to beat me? Even with half a maiden's powers, the 'Invincible Girl' is no match for me. You? I could kill you in a heartbeat."

Jaune raises Crocea Mors. It shifts, a chain erupting from the edge. A hungry whine fills the room as Jaune swings the chainsword experimentally a few times, before levelling it at Cinder. "Try it."

They meet in a clash of obsidian blades and chainsword. Jaune's blade dances with a brutal, if elegant, grace, smashing through Cinder's guard and forcing her on the defensive. In a few short clashes, Cinder's blades are ground apart by Jaune's weapon and the woman stumbles. The bolt pistol Jaune holds rises and snaps off three shots. Obsidian glass arrows intercept the miniature rockets, detonating them. The two are thrown apart once more.

Regaining their feet, Jaune and Cinder square off again. This time Cinder is much warier. Jaune is displaying an unexpected amount of skill. What's more, the sword he wields is sharper than any other Cinder has seen.

Fire encircles her right eye, shoots along her bare arms, and dances around fingertips. "You are better than expected, Arc. But in the end, you cannot stand alone against me!"

A wry smile crosses Jaune's face, even as a lance of blazing fire rushes to consume him. "Alone?"

They descend like the fist of a wrathful god, shattering the roof of the tower—three squat walls built to withstand at least some amount of heat. Not on the level of a Leman Russ or the like, but more than enough to bleed off the scorching power of Cinder's conjured lance. The Imperium waged war against beings that could summon forth the ruinous powers of the Warp; flames that burn body and soul. And as the primary users of fire, the Guard's weapons of war are more than capable of taking a little heat.

And dish it out as well. Before the smoke has even cleared, the Tarantula Batteries erupt into action. Three sets of twin-linked bolters hammer away, directed by a mechanical mind. Cinder has half a second to react and she makes a valiant effort, conjuring forth a shield of flames.

It saves her from certain death. But not from injury. Deafening blasts reduce her left arm to a blood mist and pulp her legs. Dazed and reeling, Cinder still manages to call up a torrential wash of flames. It engulfs one of the Tarantulas and the war machine detonates as its core overheated.

Stepping from the smoke, Jaune takes the place of the ruined gun. His bolt pistol spits lethal rounds that rocket into Cinder's shield. Under the sustained fire of a Commissar and heavy fire support, Cinder falters. Forced to her knees beneath sheer weight of fire, made to kneel under superior armaments, a maddened sneer crosses her face.

"Jaune Arc!" she roars, calling forth every ounce of her stolen power. He has won. She can't escape from here. Below, the Grimm are being systematically killed. Above, Imperial fliers have established air superiority and are slowly grinding the dragon Grimm down.

So then. She decides that if she can't have the Maiden's powers, no one can. Every ounce of power is drawn inwards, condensed into a core of heat made manifest. Bolter rounds melt into slag and slag disintegrates into ash before it can reach her already incandescent body.

An explosion is building, and anyone with any ability to sense aura—and quite a few without—feel a shiver run down their spine. With that much power, released in an uncontrolled rage, no one in Beacon will survive.

Jaune draws back his arm and hurls Crocea Mors and it spins through the air in a wicked buzzsaw of death. But not even his family's blade can pierce the waves of heat washing off of Cinder.

The crunch of glass and a plume of petals signals the arrival of the one who can. Chased by a flurry of rose petals, Ruby dashes past Jaune, Crescent Rose wreathed in silver light that shines from the Reaper's eyes. Fire, red hot and angry meets the cold touch of liquid starlight and is cleaved in twain. The power of a God, made to fight the enemies of Mankind, makes swift work of the utterly inhuman powers of a Maiden.

As Ruby's scythe descends, the girl hesitates. She is only a child, after all, and a kind-hearted one at that. Killing… she can hardly stomach the thought.

Jaune takes up the slack. That, after all, is the duty of a Commissar. To do what flagging troops will not. Through the small opening Ruby has carved, he aims and fires. His bolt pistol sends a round rocketing forwards, past Ruby's hesitating form, past the shield of flames that Cinder desperately tries to bring to bear, and straight through Cinder's chest.

The woman's upper body disintegrates in a burst of blood and viscera as the round detonates. She falls backwards, the power flowing from her veins. A pile of cinders hits the ground and disperses upon the wind, the Maiden's powers destroying the woman's body from the inside out.

Behind Jaune, Pyrrha's breathing stabilizes. What half the Maiden's powers cannot keep alive, the whole can. Ruby stumbles away from Cinder's mutilated body and dry heaves. Watching someone die right in front of you must be an unpleasant experience for the young girl.

Walking up to Ruby, Jaune places a hand on her shoulder. Together, the two gaze out of the tower at the grounds beneath, and beyond that, Vale. The Guard is quickly cleaning up, Elysians being bolstered by Cadian regulars and other such units, now that landing zones have been secured. Jaune looks up and winces as he watches the clearly damaged Imperial ship limp towards the surface.

The teen sighs and climbs to his feet. As a Commissar—sort of—who has been on this planet for the longest, he should probably go and meet up with the other Imperial forces. While thankful for the intervention of the Imperial Guard, it was going to be a nightmare to sort out.

* * *

Have you seen Astartes? It's fucking wonderful. The animation is just… mmh! Every scene is just so good!

Well, anyways. Jaune isn't actually a Commissar if his general demeanour isn't clue enough. Sort of. So, here's what happened. A warp fluctuation spat a Commissar's soul out of the warp. Guy named Cain. Ciaphas Cain. Hero of the Imperium. Thing about the warp is that it's affected by the thoughts, beliefs, and all that of every psychic race. Orks especially, but humans to a large extent too. And a large portion of the Imperium believes that Ciaphas Cain, even after death, is still alive somewhere fighting the enemy of mankind.

I mean, it's literally in the Imperium's books. They got so tired of having to do paperwork after he was declared dead only to pop up again a while later perfectly alive that he's listed as permanently on active duty.

So, basically, enough people believed that he was still out there fighting the good fight. So the warp obliged and chucked Cain, more specifically his soul, into the body of some schmuck. Now, maybe you thought I was going to say the body of Jaune Arc. Nah, that'd be typical. No, Cain got stuffed into Louis Marchand, the son of a well-to-do Minstralian man. With his new lease on life, Cain got right to doing what he always wanted to do—settle down and have a peaceful and comfortable existence.

And he managed it. Right up until a war broke out, and Cain was swept back into the battleground. He met his wife there, a woman named Joan Arc. Took her name, because… well, reasons mostly. Just… just go with it. Anyways, Cain sort of made a name for himself, but mostly just for the Arc family.

He would eventually tell his wife who he really was. She would shrug, and life would continue, with Cain now teaching his children about the role of a Commissar. And so it went, the Arc family making a name for themselves as great warriors in battle, who to a man or woman would retire to the countryside after the fighting was over to live a more peaceful life. It seems that some of Cain's personality made its way through the family.

Regardless, eventually, Jaune would be born, would grow up hearing the same stories, and would steal Cain's old chainsword—now named Crocea Mors—and go to Beacon.

Every other event in RWBY proceeded the same as in canon, with the divergence point being when Beacon and Vale were attacked by Cinder. Knowing Pyrrha was going off to more than likely die, Jaune activated a distress beacon that Cain had built almost a century earlier.

The almost crippled Silverlight Imperial Transport lost in the warp used that beacon as coordinates to safely exit the warp and responded to a distress call being broadcast with the authorization code of Ciaphas Cain, Hero of the Imperium. I mean, you don't just ignore that kind of thing. Even if it's a trap, you just don't. Not even a hundred years after his death.

Anyways, discovering a human settlement under attack by distinctly non-human creatures, Guard elements of the 375th Elysian Drop Troops were quickly scuttled and deployed to the surface. Cadian Shock Troops followed. Shortly after, the Silverlight Troop Transport suffered critical engine failure and crash-landed on Remnant, a short distance from Vale. With ship destroyed, no help coming, and out of contact with the Imperium, Remnant will be their new home.

And it'll be up to Jaune to take control of the situation. After all, a descendant of Commissar Ciaphas Cain, Hero of the Imperium, must be something great, right?

Also, Ruby was able to get into the tower because the Guard took the dragon Grimm down, freeing her to help Jaune. Yes, I took a bit of creative liberty with the silver eyes. Basically, imagine Ruby using Witch Hunt from Soul Eater. If you remember that show. If you don't… then you're making me feel old.

Why didn't Jaune use Crocea Mors and his bolt pistol before now? Because he was trying to keep a low profile. I mean, using the Arc family signature weapons? Bit of a giveaway where he is. He stole those and ran away from home after all. Why did he therefore just use his real name? He's blond. They are not known for intelligence. That's my fucking excuse, now stop trying to pick holes in it. It's airtight, my plots are.

Last time, have you watched Astartes? If you haven't, watch it. It is seriously the greatest depiction of Warhammer I've seen. (Not that that's hard). And is like, 90% of the reason you got another chapter so quickly. I mean, I wrote this in three days. All because Holy Fuck those Space Marines are badass. Not as badass as the Imperial Guard, but then again, who is?

Cheers.


End file.
